


A Little Bit More Or Less

by polyxena_chatoyant



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Horcruxes make people a bit weird, Magical Realism, Tags May Change, WIP, among other things that make people weird, update speed contingent on my motivation and attention span
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-16
Updated: 2020-07-16
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:14:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25305097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/polyxena_chatoyant/pseuds/polyxena_chatoyant
Summary: Harry Potter isn't very interested in being ordinary, and he's quite alright with that. Other people, not so much. Not that he cares what they think.
Relationships: Arabella Figg & Harry Potter
Kudos: 5





	A Little Bit More Or Less

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome! More WIPs for me to rest on my shoulders and ignore the weight of. Please enjoy this little prologue.

Privet Drive was an ordinary street in an ordinary town called Little Whinging, which was in an equally ordinary area of England called Surrey. It was filled with people who had ordinary problems, ordinary days, and ordinary jobs. There was nothing, absolutely nothing, out of sorts or strange about it, so everyone agreed. Cars drove down streets on the right sides of roads, people went to regular jobs like accounting and waiting tables, and the stars could usually not be seen through very well through smog in the cities.

And despite all this, Harry Potter knew for a fact that this place was not very ordinary at all. 

Oh, he had tried to tell people when he was younger. Especially his family, the Dursleys, which consisted of an Aunt, an Uncle, and a cousin. But almost nobody believed him,  _ especially _ the Dursleys. In fact, the Dursleys were incredibly adamant that there was nothing ‘unnatural’ in the world at all, though their definition of unnatural was circumspect at best. Harry was happy, though, about the word almost. Almost meant that there was, in fact, someone else who knew about the unordinarines of the world.

That person was Mrs. Arabella Figg, who lived on Wisteria Walk, which was two streets away from Privet Drive. To the outside eye, Mrs. Figg was a very ordinary, if sad, older woman; a widow who filled a void in her heart with the multitudes of cats that roamed the entirety of Little Whinging. An eyesore on the perfectly normal picture that made up most people’s lives. Most people believe that her backyard is an overgrown mess of weeds, and that Mr. Cooper, Mrs. Figg’s neighbor, couldn’t be bothered to mow it for her as he did her front lawn. Harry knew that Mrs. Figg’s backyard was filled with strange, unordinary flora and fauna that had many different properties. Most people believed that Mrs. Figg, in her elder years, couldn’t get around enough to keep track of her many cats. Harry knew that Mrs. Figg let the cats roam the town for the sole reason of spying, as she was wont to do. He had learned from her that it was best to let people believe what they wanted to believe, as most people would come up for their own explanations for anything unordinary that they might see.

Case in point, Harry himself. 

Most people believed that Harry was touched in the head. Or, if they were being polite about it, ill. Now, if Harry were any other person, he might believe this himself. Thankfully, he was Harry and no one else. However, his reputation was something that had culminated when he was younger and less ill-inclined towards pointing out the unordinary. Like when he pointed to the rosebushes on Mrs. Webber’s lawn and told her son that the roses were asking to be watered that day. Like when the history teacher was talking about Britain’s part in some war or some such, and Harry had raised his hand and said, no, the stars said it was this and not that. Harry used to be very eager to see people understand the unordinariness of the world like he did. It would have made him feel less alone.

It was instances like these, as well as the instances of unordinariness that Harry would cause himself that weren’t easily ignored, that made the Dursleys very upset with him. And when the Dursleys were upset, Harry went into the cupboard. Or, well, he usually went into the cupboard, but that was at night to sleep; when they were upset, they put him in the cupboard during the day, which was often indeed.

It was less often now that Mrs. Figg had volunteered to babysit him after school and on weekends, or whenever the Dursleys were so inclined.

Harry loved Mrs. Figg from the moment he’d met her, back when he was eight. Aunt Petunia had picked he and Dudley up after school one ordinarily unordinary day, on foot as Uncle Vernon had the car for work. Now, normally, they walked four streets back to Privet Drive and the walk ended there, with Dudley running off to play with his friends, and Harry either being put to work on his chores or let loose to roam the neighborhood, which usually meant Dudley and his friends would bother Harry. That day, however, Aunt Petunia dropped off Dudley and continued to have Harry walk with her.

The house she walked them to was shaped just like the others in Little Whinging. From the front, it appeared just as boring as the rest, though Harry was excited to see the many cats lazing about the yard. He liked the cats of Little Whinging, they were always very friendly, and usually had the most interesting things to say. They didn’t  _ actually _ speak, like everything but snakes who seemed to have mastered the linguistic skill of talking, but Harry always understood the points they tried to get across. As Aunt Petunia walked Harry up to the door, a firm hand on his shoulder, they greeted him happily with eye blinks, flicked tails, and the occasional dismissive ear twitch. 

Aunt Petunia rapped on the door with her knuckles, three times. Three was a good number. Not as good as seven, but good in its own merit. Harry preferred the number 14. It was seven doubled, which was incredibly good, he thought.

The woman who opened the door was old and short, with long grey hair tied back in a braid, wrinkles covering her, and wearing a periwinkle blue dress with dirt smudges on it. She had a smile on her face, and Harry knew she’d been expecting them. First she’d looked at Aunt Petunia, but when she glanced at Harry, he’d seen a twinkle of unordinariness in her eyes. He decided then on the spot that he would enjoy her company, were he to ever have it.

“Mrs. Figg,” Aunt Petunia said sharply. She pursed her lips before saying anything else. “Thank you again for offering to watch my nephew. If he gives you any trouble, let us know. We understand that he needs a little extra help.”

Harry was beside himself with delight, reaching up to push his beaten up glasses further up his nose. He was getting watched? By an unordinary person? How amazing! He shifted on his feet in impatience.

Mrs. Figg nodded in an understanding way. “I had a relative touched in the head, it’ll be no trouble. I’m glad I could help out, I’ve been ever so bored since moving to the neighborhood.”

Aunt Petunia nodded tersely, and released Harry’s shoulder from her clutches. “Well. I will return at eight o’clock for him. Have a good day.”

And with that out of the way, she turned on her foot and stalked off down the driveway. The cats watched her go with a snicker. Harry didn’t bother to watch, for he only had eyes for Mrs. Figg, who had stepped back and opened the door wider to let him in. 

“C’mon in, dearie,” she said with a smile, which Harry beamed back at and stepped in with a skip. “Would you like some cake?”

“I’d love some, thanks,” he said politely, for it was always best to be polite. Speaking of - “You don’t have a telly, do you? I only ask because they don’t tend to like me, and I’d hate to mess up your things.”

Mrs. Figg shut the door behind them and led him into the kitchen. The house on the inside was shaped like all the other houses, too, so he had no trouble knowing where they were going. Oh, but the things! Things filled the house, not mentioning the cats; bookshelves filled with books and trinkets, newspapers stacked on various surfaces, and a windchime was hung from the ceiling in the middle of every room. The windows were all open, letting in the whispering breeze, and he could even spot a feather or two hidden amongst everything. 

“No need to worry, Harry,” said Mrs. Figg, “They don’t like me, either.”

They ate chocolate cake and Mrs. Figg let Harry wander her backyard and listen to the whispers of the plants, which helpfully told him what they were and their uses and which ones to avoid lest he get a finger taken off. She let him read books off her shelves, which spoke of both ordinary and unordinary subjects like bowtruckles and stock markets, and didn’t even scream when he brought in a garden snake. And when Aunt Petunia picked him up that evening, Mrs. Figg said nothing of his unordinary actions, and when asked, Harry told Aunt Petunia, in the saddest voice he could muster, that Mrs. Figg was as ordinary as they come. He didn’t want Aunt Petunia to not let him go back. 

Visits continued as such. Mrs. Figg never outright spoke about the unordinariness, giving a strange smile and a wink when he would ask her about something before pushing him towards the bookshelves. She never gave a hint of unordinariness to any visitors they might have, and Harry learned to follow suit. He’d hide the snakes and stop giggling when the wind told him jokes when Mr. Cooper came by to mow the lawn, and he learned to hide his communications with the cats in public. 

The unorthodox lessons in hiding in plain sight were a great boon to Harry. The only time the Dursleys put him in the cupboard was now at night, seeing as he didn’t speak of unordinary things to them, and any unordinary thing he might cause tended to happen at Mrs. Figg’s house. 

So. Privet Drive was a very unordinary street in an unordinary town called Little Whinging, which was in an unordinary place in England called Surrey, filled with mostly ordinary people, with only two exceptions. Harry didn’t feel quite as lonely after that.

**Author's Note:**

> I'll give a quick explanation, so if you'd like to avoid spoilers, maybe skip reading the bit in brackets.
> 
> [Having a little bit extra of a soul is a lot like having an extra sense, but with magic. Other things can cause a similar sense, as will be mentioned and explained much further along in the story. I wonder, then, what having a bit - or a lot - less than a soul would do. Obviously, this changes things.]
> 
> Anyways! I hope you enjoyed reading this. I'm wondering whether or not I should keep it entirely Harry's POV or not, though. I've already got pairings in mind for the story as well, and the majority of the big plot points mapped out in my head. The fiddly details could change, thus affecting the bigger details, so it's a coin toss. I'm not going to be making this a series, it's just going to be one big fic. Just gotta keep writing.
> 
> Question: what House do you think this Harry would fit best in? I've already decided where he's going, but I'd love to see where you think he'll go, or where he should go.


End file.
